


Grand Plan

by emmish, SnowCrazy15



Series: Grand Master [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Agony Aunts and Uncles, Anal Fingering, Anniversary, Arguing, Begging, Blow Jobs, Horny Sherlock, Light Angst, M/M, Manipulative Sherlock, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Smut, a little help from my friends, asking advice, drinking buddies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-01-10 08:12:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12295050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmish/pseuds/emmish, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnowCrazy15/pseuds/SnowCrazy15
Summary: Sherlock plots to finally get his way with his recalcitrant army doctor.~ Sequel to Grand Master! ~





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So it's time to continue this series, we recommend you read the first story to understand all references!  
> Please comment and kudos if you enjoy it, it makes us happy!  
> -Emmish and SnowCrazy15

It was a bittersweet sort of anniversary for Sherlock, their one-month of exclusivity. The sun was shining brightly, though the temperature was still crisply cold, they had a few small cases on the go, and things couldn't really have been any better for the detective.

  
There was, however, one monumental snag.

  
He hadn't managed to bed John yet.

  
It had been frustrating, considering having John in his bed was brilliant, and yet the man refused to enter his body. Or, to be entered.  
Sherlock had been initially confident in his deduction that John must want to be penetrated, but for whatever reason, did not want to ask for it. John had soundly put his mind at rest, but was still insisting on giving unbelievably vague and arbitrary timelines for their lovemaking.

  
It was infuriating. One moment, Sherlock was sure that John was ready, and the doctor would hint it (moan it, sometimes) and yet when Sherlock asked it of him, John would pull away. Depending on how Sherlock asked for it, the doctor would either get up and leave (Sherlock was _not_ a child) or he would reach for the drawer and use a toy.  
He was well aware that he needed to construct a new hypothesis to figure out the reasoning behind the repeated refusals. That had proved, however, to be an uncomfortably eye-opening endeavour.

  
Sherlock had reluctantly come to the conclusion that perhaps engaging in full sex would be a step that John was just not prepared to take, perhaps not ever. The other possibility was that John would perhaps engage in full sex with a man, but his obvious _emotional_ affection for Sherlock was a lot stronger than his actual _physical_ attraction to him, which was a barrier to his actions.

  
If he were a better man, Sherlock would have respected John's wishes. He would just be glad to have the man next to him, freely touching his skin. As it was though, Sherlock was not a good man. Thus proven by the section of the document looking back at him from the screen of John's laptop, ready to be updated.

  
-Lure with the promise of cuddling.  
-Convince that prostate is swollen.   
-Ask for a thorough medical examination.

  
He was also reasonably sure that if he managed to persuade John to engage in some light bondage, then he might find less resistance. The doctor seemed to be irritatingly-conscious of his secret plan though, and 'kinky stuff' had been relegated to the ambiguous, hazy timeline too.  
He huffed dramatically, three fingers drumming on the table. The next suggestion in his list consisted of greeting the doctor completely naked, on the couch, prepared and ready.

  
It had a small percentage (33%) calculated next to it, as he didn't believe it would be entirely successful. With John's libido highlighted at the top, Sherlock determined that the doctor would engage in sexual contact, but without penetration.  
It wouldn't be enough, and yet he needed to try.

  
It seemed to him that there was hardly any difference between using your fingers or a toy to penetrate somebody, and using a penis. But there must have been a distinction, and quite a considerable one, otherwise John would presumably have made love to him a score of times by now. There also was the troubling consideration of John's prior eagerness to jump into bed with women he barely knew, and have full sex with them.

  
It could have perhaps been familiarity for John. He'd always been considered a heterosexual man, despite his experimentation in his youth. Or perhaps he was simply not willing to take that final leap with him. It was frustrating, to say the least. And Sherlock couldn't help but wonder if he wasn’t enough for the doctor, despite his efforts. Whatever the case, it left the detective simmering and unfulfilled, having John so close and yet not having him completely. He was a selfish creature, and if John was unwilling to tell him the exact reason for his hesitation, then he would continue to tempt him.

  
He was still at the stage where he still had a series of tests to conduct, and had not completely given up on 'reasonable' tactics to get his doctor to take the final step.  
He had great hopes for this day in particular - being an 'anniversary' of sorts (and having been the one to impregnate John with the idea that it was a vastly important one), and knowing that his flatmate was sentimental about such things.

  
He glanced at the time on the laptop. He had approximately half an hour before John came back from his irritatingly routine morning food shop.  
Heaving a sigh, Sherlock pulled the sheet tighter around his shoulders as he leaned forward, scrolling through his three page list. What would be the best tactic today? He knew that it had been two days since John had ejaculated, so his libido would be higher than normal. It would take approximately seven minutes for him to reach full erection once he was introduced to stimulus. Four if it was a surprise introduction.

  
He also knew by now that John had a considerable and far-ranging desperation kink, and one he was more than happy to exploit. With the added factor of the one-month anniversary, Sherlock was satisfied that there was a better-than-80% chance of success. If it _didn't_ succeed, then it would be vital to ascertain why not.

  
Smirking to himself, the detective slammed the laptop shut, deciding that twenty minutes of self-stimulation would be enough to get himself to peak desperation. He got to his feet, long body covered in the thin sheet. Where would be the best place to wait? On the couch? It would certainly have the surprise element to it, but there was also a chance John would drop the shopping which would vex him. Then again, the added anger would cause John to act a little more irrationally, perhaps even enough to cause him to penetrate the detective. The thought was arousing, and he reached under the sheet to stroke himself lightly.

 

* * *

  
John turned onto Baker Street a full twenty minutes later than he had anticipated, his irritation at the hold-up rapidly melting into an excitement at greeting his detective.  
Sherlock had been grumpy and languid when he had left, dribbling onto his pillow endearingly, and John had ruffled his hair and made his way out. He might not have otherwise bothered, but since Sherlock was seemingly so thrilled at having an 'anniversary' to celebrate, he thought he had better do his bit and pick up some supplies and a few knick-knacks.

  
He huffed as he juggled the shopping bags and his keys, getting through the first door but then stumbling in the entry way. He swore under his breath before trudging up the stairs, hoping that Sherlock would like the brand of wine he'd picked up. He wasn't one for fancy wines, so he just hoped that Sherlock would give him the benefit of the doubt.

  
"Sherlock, are you-"

  
The door to the flat was eased open with a pink, shaky hand, and the detective popped his face through the gap. "John! Help," he seethed breathlessly.

  
The doctor immediately went into panic mode at seeing his flatmate's distress; his pained expression and the urgency in his wheezy voice.

  
John's eyes went wide as he stepped forward. "What? What's the matter? What's happened?"

  
"Need your help. Right now. Where have you been," Sherlock panted through the door crack, and John frowned at the fresh, hot sweat running down through the detective's tousled fringe and over his reddened forehead.

  
"With what?" asked John, his heart ramming against his ribs as he tried to understand what was wrong. "Let me in, has something happened? Why are you sweating?"

  
"Is it clear out there?" Sherlock asked feverishly, trying to see past John and determine whether their landlady was present. "Are we alone?"

  
John frowned and whipped his head behind him and then back, utterly confused and very worried. "What? No, I mean yes we're alone. What's going on?"

  
"When I woke up without you...I needed release. I've tried so hard, John, nothing works. Your participation is vital. I need to come," Sherlock confessed, as throatily as he could.  
He eased back the door, one wet hand cupping himself self-consciously, as if he was trying to avoid making a mess on the floor. To be honest, it wasn't entirely an act - Sherlock had been edging himself repeatedly, relentlessly, and had produced an almost unsurpassed amount of pre-come.

  
"O - oh..." John swallowed thickly as the door was pulled back, revealing a ridiculously wet, flushed, sweaty detective. The shopping bags hit the floor, forgotten, John's indigo eyes moving up and down the body he'd had in his bed for a month now. Sherlock was hiding his groin, and before he could stop himself, John reached out and pulled the man's hand away. A small, needy little groan left his throat as he saw Sherlock's cock, positively dripping, a stark red against his pale stomach.

  
" _Oh_."

  
John swallowed again reflexively at the string of clear liquid that tethered Sherlock's dark, throbbing flesh to his trembling hand, even as the bitter scent of arousal assailed him. It took him a second to realise Sherlock was talking to him.

  
"I need it all, John. _Right now_."

  
John could feel a flush raising goosebumps on his skin and he shuddered, that deep voice so thick with arousal that he was already nearly completely hard. He nodded, putting one hand on Sherlock's damp chest, pushing him back into the flat gently. He was quick to close the door, keeping his eyes on Sherlock the entire time.

  
"Sit on the couch," he said, his voice broking no argument as he pulled open his jacket. "Now."

  
He groaned without thinking when Sherlock tentatively sat down, the detective staring down at the state of his own slick, greedy cock as if he had never seen such a thing before. Sherlock looked up at him with clear, pale eyes and parted lips, before abruptly sucking two long fingers into his mouth and then hooking them between his legs, pushing eagerly and gaining immediate entrance.

  
John tried to take a breath but was enamoured with the sight of Sherlock fucking himself. It wasn't a new sight - maybe on the couch in broad daylight was new - but it never ceased to amaze him. He felt his mouth water at the sight, filling with enough liquid to give him the idea of what he wanted to do. Dropping his coat on the floor, the doctor cleared the space in a few quick strides, getting to his knees and moaning as he watched Sherlock's greedy body suck at his fingers.

  
"Fucking hell," he whispered, now flaunting an impressive erection inside his jeans.

  
Sherlock optimistically pushed another two fingers at his entrance, wincing a bit before they too were engulfed, and he exhaled loudly at the pressure, struggling to keep his body from rejecting the intrusion, closing his eyes as he imagined the stiff cock that would soon be replacing them.

  
John let out a small choking sound, watching as Sherlock near enough fisted himself. He put his hands on the detective's thighs and spread them, getting a better look at his flushed cock.

  
"Fuck you're gorgeous."

  
Sherlock acceded even further, widening his legs and removing his fingers from his pink, damp opening, feeling highly bashful at such exposure, but convinced that such a visceral image would totally shut down any last excuses John might be thinking of making.

  
"I'm ready," he murmured, blinking away a rogue, stinging bead of sweat as it burned down from his hairline.

  
John felt his mouth go dry, blinking a few times before leaning forward. He ran a stripe with the flat of his tongue over Sherlock's cock, humming at the salty taste clinging to the throbbing muscle before suckling at the head. He couldn't believe the amount of pre-come Sherlock had produced - the man must have really been chasing his orgasm. He heard Sherlock gasp and before he could take another breath, John reached up with his hand and ran his thumb over Sherlock's quivering hole, letting his lips curl around his cock and take him a little deeper into his mouth.

  
"Yes...yes...I'm _ready_ , John, do it, please, get it out," Sherlock mumbled, rasping his oxygen through plump, bitten lips.

  
John moaned around Sherlock's cock, slicking two fingers with the residual lube he could feel around Sherlock's arse before pressing two fingers down to the knuckle inside of him. He moaned again, because Sherlock was so open it would be so easy to just slide himself in there. John took Sherlock deeper into his mouth to the point where he nearly gagged, bringing his head back up and lavishing the tip with his tongue.

  
"John...it's not enough...please...I'm ready now, let's do it. God, let's do it," Sherlock panted, fumbling a wet hand through his doctor's short hair, thumbing lovingly, encouragingly, across his temple and brow.

  
John wiggled his fingers inside the detective, moving his hand until he could curl them and stroke that lovely, soft bundle of nerves in the way he knew Sherlock liked it. His body was trembling from the force of his arousal and he found himself rolling his hips idly against the sofa. He sucked harder, taking him deeper, keeping himself occupied with Sherlock's cock and not the fact that he was being begged to fuck the man into the cushions.

  
He felt a quickening, dizzy sense of both urgency and relief when Sherlock clenched tellingly around him, and the brunette tried to push him away, tried to escape the bone-deep, tantalising pleasure that rapidly loomed.

  
John used his other hand to hold Sherlock's hips still, caressing his prostate in time with his tongue, knowing the tell-tale tightening of Sherlock's muscles and wanting to bring him to orgasm before he could convince him to fuck him.

  
Thanking God that Sherlock never actually said 'stop,' John efficiently, painstakingly brought him to climax, gulping assiduously on his thick, blood-hot member, pumping quickly with his fingers, sighing in relief when the muscles around his numbing digits suddenly crushed tight around him, and Sherlock bellowed.

  
Hot, salty liquid flooded into his mouth and John pulled back a little so he wouldn't choke on it. He kept sucking gently, milking out every last drop until Sherlock fell back to the couch with a small squeaking sigh. The doctor pulled back, reflexively swallowing the mass in his mouth before wiping his lips with the back of his hands.

  
"Feel better?"

  
Sherlock's broad chest heaved as he wordlessly recovered for a few seconds, his face bright pink and sheened with unclean sweat. He gradually managed to enunciate.

  
"S'very nice. Get your penis out."

  
John coughed out a laugh, but it fell flat as he realised that he was absolutely fucking aching. "Are - are you going to use your mouth?" he asked, realising that Sherlock was starting to get a little more clarity in those bright eyes.

  
"I'm going to surprise you," Sherlock replied ambiguously, still breathing hard, but eyeing his doctor ravenously. "Take it out right now. I want to see it."

  
John felt a small frown crease his features, not quite liking the predatory look in Sherlock's eyes. "I don't think..." John swallowed hard, unsure what kind of territory he was walking into. Sherlock had been merciless with his deceptions lately, and it had made John wary.

  
The detective suddenly sat up, with only the briefest wobble, smoothed his own wet curls back from his face, and then grabbed John's face with hot, damp hands for a ferocious kiss.

  
John barely managed a muffled yelp of surprise before he gave in, trying to keep up with the lips and teeth and tongue assaulting him. He took a breath when he could but it felt like Sherlock was trying to inhale every moan and gasp.

  
Somewhere in the back of his mind, John was still trying to reconcile coming home from the shops one uneventful morning, to being assaulted by a large, wet, naked man. He almost lost his grasp on his enforced abstinence when the detective whispered tiny, loving words against his lips, pecking and smooching repeatedly.

  
His body practically melted under the man, his body going slack as Sherlock lowered him to the floor, shifting his own naked body to straddle him whilst sucking hard at his lower lip.

  
Sherlock's little, breathless declarations became more audible, and whilst John didn't exactly resent them, he now didn't know what he should be trying to stop first - the intense verbal pronouncements, or the heavy backside that was grinding against his clothed crotch.

  
"Ung...Sherlock...oh Jesus..." John gasped, rocking his hips up to meet Sherlock's perky arse before biting back a moan. Sherlock continued to whisper in his ear, sweet nothings that made his heart flutter and groin clench. "Oh my fucking _God_."

  
"Want to touch you...beautiful...so hard...so strong," Sherlock was muttering, reaching between his own legs to pop open John's straining flies, slipping his underwear down and pulling him free, moaning in satisfaction.

  
John was sure his eyes rolled back just as his head hit the hard floor, his hips rolling into Sherlock's touch, the tip of his cock leaking in anticipation. "Fucking hell," he gasped, still wondering how he'd gone from shopping to straddling in under fifteen minutes.

  
"Incredible...amazing, John," Sherlock cooed, his eyes flickering to his doctor’s, seeing them close briefly, and seizing the chance to shift up, grab John's cock and try and direct it inside himself in one swift movement.

  
John could still feel Sherlock's lips against his cheek, his hot breath ghosting over the doctor's flesh. It was when he felt the tip of his cock pressing against something that was definitely not a mouth that his eyes flew open.

  
Before he could really think about it, the doctor made some kind of sound, bracing himself on the floor and effortlessly flipping them. Sherlock landed on his back with an undignified huff and John pulled his hips back enough so that he wouldn't be tempted to slam himself into Sherlock's body.

  
"Fucking _hell_ Sherlock," he practically growled, reaching down to his aching cock and rubbing it. "What is wrong with you?" he tried to snap, but his own hand on his dick was too good and he was pumping himself before he could fully show his annoyance.

  
With a quick, sinuous move that John had never experienced before, Sherlock suddenly had his legs over John's shoulders, and was offering a baritone litany of anguished begging below him.

  
"Fuck me, John, come on, it's time, do it," Sherlock pleaded, rolling his hips temptingly.

  
John let out a noise that could only have been described as a snarl, the muscles in his arms flexing and tensing as he kept himself still. He tugged on himself harder, lowering his head against Sherlock's leg as he fought to keep himself under control.

  
"God, John! Fuck! I need it!" Sherlock was yelling now, looking more anguished through panic than through arousal, and he stared down at the minuscule gap between them, wondering what invisible force was possibly stopping John from screwing him through the floorboards.

  
"Sherlock!" he snapped, unsure whether he wanted the man to stop because his voice was far too fucking persuading or the fact that he was angry he'd been manipulated. He had more control with the detective underneath him though, and as his strokes got harder, John was unable to form more than simple words and grunts. " _Sherlock_..."

  
As he breached a sharp and painful climax, John cried out, his throat raw, and he allowed himself the luxury of spurting his copious seed across Sherlock's damp entrance, watching the tender muscle twitch as it received his pleasure.

  
Sherlock continued with needy whimpers as John braced himself against the other's legs, breathing heavily and trying not to just collapse.

  
The detective hissed as he lowered his legs, his heels bumping loudly on the floor. The stretch of vigorous insertion and the effort of his fingers and wrists were starting to make themselves known in tiny tingles and aches, and he allowed himself to just close his eyes and breathe for a minute.

  
John sat back, groaning as he felt the slickness covering his hand, the ache in his knees making itself apparent. "So you're trying assault now?" he asked, his voice still unsteady.

  
"It's not assault if you want it," Sherlock murmured tiredly.

  
"I really don't want to argue about this right now," replied John, just as exhausted, before pinching the bridge of his nose.

  
"What concerns me is that there is even an argument to have. What _concerns_ me is the fact that you can't bear to have sex with me."

  
"Sherlock, I've explained to you over and over again. It's not you, for fuck's sake. Just give me some time."

  
"If you can't bring yourself to have full sex with me after a month in this relationship, then you never will. Don't talk to me about 'time,' John. We've already wasted far too much of our lives without each other."

  
John visibly flinched at the words, swallowing thickly. Guilt knotted in his stomach and it was becoming a far too familiar feeling as the days ticked by. It only made his anxiety worse about full penetration. "So you want to end it, then?"

  
"Don't be an imbecile. I want you to be honest about why you're not...engaging. _Then_ I can work out what I have to do to remedy this."

  
"You don't have to remedy anything!" John felt his breath quicken in his chest, all too cornered in his lax, post-orgasm state. "It's just me, it's in my head. Just trust me."

  
"But I want to sleep with you. I want to consummate 'us.' It would...reassure me." Sherlock was still talking to him from the floor, his eyes tired but imploring.

  
John let out a long breath, mouth open but unable to speak. His face was pained, his body curling in on itself. "Please don't think it's you, Sherlock. Please. It's not, I swear."

  
The detective fixed him with his most searching gaze, practically making John itch with the intensity of it.

  
"...Fine, John." Sherlock got up with a slight, pained exhale, and picked up his discarded sheet, flinging it over his shoulder and wandering in the direction of the bathroom.

  
John watched him go, simmering on the words to apologise but he couldn't cough them out. Instead he sighed heavily and tucked himself back into his jeans, grimacing at the sticky wetness that started to seep into his boxers.

  
"Fuck it all," he muttered under his breath.


	2. Chapter 2

The first thing John did when Sherlock flounced out, was grumpily change his now-soiled clothes. Feeling distinctly pissed off, he grabbed his phone from his jeans and wrote the message before actually deciding which of his friends he should send it to.

_-Sherlock's driving me crazy. Need to talk. Any chance of a pint? - JW_

...Definitely Lestrade. They could share domestic sob stories. _Christ_.

It wasn't as if the entire Yard hadn't caught on, but Greg was the only one he had confirmed it to. As far as he knew, the rest of them were just going off speculation. But despite Sherlock's odd comment about people knowing, it had been pretty good.

Lestrade had accepted it as if John and Sherlock had always been together, which was a relief despite the odd joke here and there. The man had been married a fair while too, so he might have some insight on whatever... him and Sherlock... were.

Regardless, he needed to get drunk and talk to someone other than Sherlock about the issue between them that the detective seemed to have blown out of all proportion.

John moved into the living room, grabbing his leather jacket from the back of the chair and pulling it on as he heard a chime from his pocket. He pulled out his phone and let out a small sigh of relief.

_-Sure, mate. Give me half an hour –GL_

John was replying as he left 221B, eyes down and distracted.

Hearing the main door close, Sherlock cracked open the bathroom door and frowned indignantly out into the empty, chilly flat.

"...John?"

The only answer to his call was the lingering echo of the front door slamming shut, and Sherlock felt a frown crease his eyebrows. With a huff and pulled his head back into the bathroom, slamming the door with enough force to shake the frame.

Feeling the kind of deficient emotion that burned behind his eyes, tightened his throat and made him angry for reasons that he didn't really understand, he sat down heavily on the edge of the bath and crossed his arms. He breathed shallowly for a few moments, his exhales oddly damp-sounding, and he abruptly rubbed his sore eyes.

Rejection, in any form, was a hard emotion to deal with. Not necessarily one in itself, but what accompanied it. Sherlock was not used to the bitterness it inspired, or the self-loathing, the self-consciousness that prickled at his skin. He had never had a reason to doubt himself before - well, he had, but he had long since learned his features were adequate enough in appearance to manipulate man or woman.

And yet, it didn't seem to be enough for John. Clearly, _he_ was not enough. Perhaps it was his own denial, but there was a snippet of doubt, a niggle in the back of his mind that he hadn't quite put all the pieces together correctly. Maybe some external input would be useful.

He tried his hardest not to imagine where John had sped off to.

It took him a good ten minutes to stand up, sniff up the excess sentiment that was irritating his sinuses, and groggily begin to get dressed. Mrs. Hudson had always been a motherly figure to him - that is, she was fond of him, with the requisite amount of common sense, and unafraid to speak her mind.

Perhaps she would have an insight into John's psyche that Sherlock couldn't quite penetrate. The detective huffed at his own thoughts, swanning into his bedroom and pulling on his favourite black trousers and his plum shirt. John had always reacted when Sherlock wore this shirt, in a multitude of ways. If he wore it now, perhaps he could comfort himself with the knowledge the doctor found him semi-attractive. It wasn't much, and didn't comfort him in the way he needed, but it was better than nothing.

He ruffled his hair the way John did when he couldn't resist just plunging his hand into his curls and rummaging. His doctor mostly did it first thing in the morning, and as soon as he came in from work. Or indeed, any time where John presumably considered that their time apart had just been too long for comfort.

His hands moved to his shirt collar, pulling it down before bringing it back up. His thumbs caressed the edges, mimicking the movements of John's fingers. The past month, John had seemingly gotten more comfortable with shows of affection. He would grab Sherlock by the collar and pull him forward for a kiss.

Sherlock sighed, a huff of frustration, before tugging his collar back down and taking long strides from the room. Mrs Hudson would understand. If not, then he would find someone who _could_ enlighten him.

Stomping inelegantly downstairs, he sulked into Mrs. Hudson's kitchen after half-heartedly picking her front door lock with his penknife.

"Mrs. Hudson!" he yelled, glancing around and helping himself to some cheesecake from the fridge before sitting down and waiting for his landlady to materialise.

Sherlock had just taken the last bite as Mrs Hudson came rushing into the room, her usually pristine hair now haphazardly ruffled and a dressing gown pulled tight around her body.

"Sherlock Holmes! You can't just wander into my flat whenever it takes your fancy!"

"Life would be simple if my 'fancies' extended merely to breaking into your fridge, Mrs. Hudson. I have an emergency. It requires maternal advice."

Mrs Hudson opened her mouth but seemed to stop at she registered what Sherlock had said. With a huff (which he suspected as merely the woman keeping up appearances), Mrs Hudson turned in the small kitchen and started to pull out all she would need for tea.

By the time the kettle had boiled, a small spread had been placed on the table consisting of a delicate tea set and the rest of the cheesecake. Sherlock helped himself to another slice as his landlady set down a tea pot and joined him on the opposite chair.

"Is there a problem between you and John, dear? I've heard some awful bickering between the two of you lately. All that thumping around."

"There have been roughly equal amounts of 'coital' thumping, and 'fight' thumping. The former is the problem. It's not so much coital as frightful."

Mrs Hudson's hands stilled mid-pour and she took a moment before continuing.

"What's the problem, dear? Is it all...working...that way?"

Sherlock paused too, as if suddenly uncomfortable that he might actually have to voice his fears and make them all the more real.

"I don't think John loves me, or finds me suitably physically attractive."

"Oh pish! The things I've heard, Sherlock, that couldn't possibly be true. Why would you think that?"

"He doesn't want to consummate the relationship. Such as it is. We came _this_ close," he illustrated, holding his finger and thumb a little apart. "One or two more inches would literally have been enough."

Mrs Hudson cleared her throat and brought one of the china cups to her lips.

"Have you asked him why?"

"He just fobs me off with impossibly imprecise promises that it will 'happen in time.' Quite frankly I think it should have been happening from the very beginning. I can't see the barrier that seems to be restricting him. Unless he truly can't get past the fact that I don't have a vagina."

The cup was put back to the saucer a little too quickly, clattering the two together before Mrs Hudson righted herself.

"Well... This might be a change for him, Sherlock. He's probably adjusting, that's all."

"But he's had his mouth on me. His fingers inside me. Surely if it was all so new, he'd definitely balk at giving a blowjob?"

"Sherlock, please. I hear enough, I don't need all the details."

Mrs Hudson seemed to be holding her composure well enough, but her eyes focused on the tea pot as she filled Sherlock's cup.

"Maybe you're looking at this the wrong way, dear. Maybe it means more than just sex. Has he explained to you why he won't...you know."

"Not...exactly, no. But he hasn't reciprocated when I've told him I love him either. Isn't that what you're supposed to do? He thinks I haven't noticed."

"Sherlock," she said gently. "It's not that easy to admit you love someone, not when it means so much."

"It was easy for me. I just opened my mouth and said it. More than once," Sherlock shrugged, looking frustrated.

"But it's not just saying it dear. It's _feeling_ it. They're more than just three words, and maybe John is trying to find a way to show you that."

"But..." Sherlock huffed irritably, and poked his finger distractedly into the bulk of the cheesecake, eyeing his fingerprint plastering itself into the sweet cream cheese. "But what if he _never_ says it?"

Mrs Hudson sighed and gave him a soft, knowing smile. A mothering smile.

"Anyone can see that he loves you, Sherlock. You just need to wait until _he_ sees it."

Sherlock groaned melodramatically, ruffling his hair roughly. "Oh, Hudders. Let's just hope it doesn't all end like it did with you."

Mrs Hudson's whole demeanour seemed to come to a stop, her entire body turning to stone as she set her gentle eyes on Sherlock. Although he noticed they didn't look so gentle any more.

"My marriage is not part of this discussion, Sherlock Holmes."

"No. Not the most sparkling endorsement of lifelong partnership," Sherlock mused, oblivious.

"My husband is dead, and there is no love lost there. If you want my advice on your relationships, I am happy to oblige. But you do not get to criticise mine."

Mrs Hudson blinked, sitting back with pursed lips before picking up her teacup as if the brew was her anchor to reality.

Sherlock was quiet for a second, and then suddenly perked up, as if something had just occurred to him.

"How long into the relationship was it before he shagged you?"

It was surprising, really, how strong such a tender old lady could be. Sherlock was introduced to this strength, and the force that was Mrs Hudson in a huff. There was a rush of arms, splutters and robes before the detective was stumbling into the main hallway and the door to Mrs Hudson's flat left a residual echo in his ears as it was slammed shut.

Pouting at the door, Sherlock's chin wrinkled as he contemplated his next move. Clearly, Mrs. Hudson was not the ideal source of relationship advice. He needed someone who had experienced their fair share of rejection. Returning to the flat only to retrieve his coat, he was soon making his way briskly down Baker Street, collar up, gloved hands in pockets, and a few rare specks of snow catching in his dark curls.

* * *

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

The bubbling bitter brew ran down John’s parched throat, leaving an icy trail to his lungs that hit a spot inside him to make him groan gratefully. He set the cold glass on the bar before licking his lips, turning to Lestrade who was watching him with a small grin.

"Needed that then?" asked the Detective Inspector playfully.

"You have no idea. Is it too early to get completely rat-arsed?" he replied, with a feeble grin.

Following his small chuckle with a look at his watch, Greg turned back to John still smiling.

"I think a few more hours and you'll be fine."

"Well, I'm gonna make a brave start. Now that I'm here, I feel like a twat," John admitted, fiddling with his empty glass, watching it smear sticky puddles across the bar.

"If it helps, you don't look like one." Greg took a pull of his own drink before setting his friend with a more serious look. "What's going on, mate? You've got your classic 'Sherlock's fucked me off' face going on."

"I think it's becoming a permanent fixture," John answered, smirking humourlessly. "Sorry to drag you out like this. I need a normal person to talk to. Well...you know what I mean."

Greg raised his eyebrows and took a deep breath, chuckling out his agreement. "Yeah, I know what you mean. Honestly, dealing with Sherlock for a few days on a case is... well it's not living with him I suppose - but yeah, I know what you mean."

"Try sleeping with him. Or......not," the doctor murmured awkwardly.

Lestrade blinked a few times before nodding. "Ah, so it's about that then."

"...We don't have to talk about it. I know it's...fucking weird," John shrugged, itching for another drink. "But it's just...being around him all the time is pretty overwhelming at the best of times. When he's confused, impatient, and horny, it's a million times worse."

Greg used his pint to stop his mouth from speaking, trying to keep his attention on his friend's problem rather than imagining the stoic Sherlock Holmes...horny.

"So is it just Sherlock being Sherlock that's hard- _difficult_ to deal with?"

"He's..." John pondered for a second, feeling infinitely uncomfortable. It sounded ridiculous, saying it out loud. "He wants to have sex."

Greg watched John for a few silent seconds, waiting for the punchline. When it wasn't forthcoming, he frowned. "And that's... bad?"

"It just feels like...I don't know. Once there's nothing new that I can give him, that'll be it. It'll be boring for him."

Greg finished his pint and called for another round with a wave of his hand.

"So you think he's gonna get bored of you?"

"He gets bored of _everything_. He keeps going on about having these new experiences with me that he's never known before. When they run out, I don't see what more he'd need from me. In _that_ way. He's...capricious, to say the least."

"Look, John, Sherlock is a lot of things. Believe me I know that. He's got a hell of an addictive personality but, I dunno mate. He's kept you around a fair while. This might not be something he'll get bored of."

"It's all been very quick, for me. Very full-on. He says a lot of things that I don't know if he really means. You know? It sounds terrible but...like a kid repeating something he heard on TV."

"I don't think he knows as much as he lets on," said Greg with a small smile, trying to find the words to comfort his friend. "I don't think he's ever really been in a relationship either. Maybe he does feel something and is trying to show it, or maybe he's saying what he thinks he's supposed to say."

"Yeah. I don't think he's _lying_ , but...I can't tell him exactly what he wants to hear. And I'm seriously starting to think he's gonna rape me soon," John blushed, taking a long gulp of his fresh pint.

Greg spluttered on his pint, blowing froth up his nose before he set the drink aside and tried not to dissolve into a coughing fit.

"Seriously?"

"This morning he...well, he's tried everything. I'm a good man, Greg, but bloody hell, I'm not a saint. Take the focus of his genius brain, and transplant it into him doing everything he can to get my..." he drifted off, chuckling quietly.

Greg let out a sympathetic huff. "I'm surprised you haven't given in if I'm honest. When Sherlock wants something..."

"I'm very close. Don't let him know that, though. The man's a menace."

Greg let out a snigger and shook his head, sharing a grin with the doctor.

"Anyway. Enough about the people lusting after me and my cock," John chuckled. "How's things with you?"

* * *

 

Molly sighed, opening her locker, removing her bag, and then going to the staff room. She went to the fridge to retrieve her flowery, labelled lunchbox, filled with that day's pasta salad. Alone in the cluttered room, she took a second to stretch her arms, crack her knuckles, and adjust her bra straps.

"Molly."  
The young woman gave out a squeak, jumping as her hand stilled its movement to the pesky bit of metal digging in to her left breast to see a figure looming in the doorway. He had his arms crossed behind his back and an intensely quizzical look in his piercing eyes. 

  
"S - Sherlock?"

She pulled her hand from her cat-print jumper hurriedly, her knuckles catching on the bra strap with a loud 'snap.' Sherlock just blinked at her as she blushed furiously, clearing her throat and trying to tidy herself up.

"Did I catch you at an inopportune moment? I could come back?" the detective broke in smoothly, knowing full well she wouldn't turn him away.

"No, I um...lunch," she stammered. "Are you...um...I won't be back in the lab for another hour."

"That won't be a problem. I've come to talk to you, if I may?" Sherlock cleared the distance in a few long strides, gesturing to the chair opposite Molly.

_God damn it. The one day I forget my concealer. And did I get that bile out of my hair?_

Molly shook away her thoughts and nodded, gesturing nervously for him to sit down. She swallowed, dark-eyed, as he shook snow from his glossy black curls, and swept his coat out behind him elegantly before sitting down on the comically-small plastic chair.

"H - How can I help?" she asked cheerily, moving to put down her fork but forgetting the pasta stuck on the end. It caught the edge of her container and ended up flicking food over the table. She watched as a fleck landed on Sherlock's impeccable plum shirt and inwardly thought of how many ways she could open the Earth to swallow her whole.

She nearly inhaled her own tongue when Sherlock, keeping his eyes on hers, swept up the pasta sauce with the tip of a finger, and proceeded to push it ludicrously far into his own mouth, sucking deliberately.

Molly's brown eyes turned dark as she watched with rapt attention at the way the lump in Sherlock's throat dipped under his scarf, the detective swallowing before humming so deep it could only be described as a purr.

"Far too much salt, but incredibly... _bold_."

Molly could only huff out a breath at the detective's words, nodding helplessly.

Her face was actually stinging with embarrassment, and she felt nothing but relief when Sherlock stopped eyeing her knowingly, and abruptly tidied himself up, getting down to business.

"I need advice. About sex."

Molly had just turned back to the food she no longer needed considering she was stirring with a new kind of hunger, before those words had her eyes snapping back to Sherlock's face.

"A - advice about... from me?"

Sherlock allowed himself a vulnerable little hitch in his voice as he spoke again. "I don't actually have many friends I can turn to for advice. I need you, Molly."

The sound threatening to leave her throat was quickly swallowed back, and even though her cheeks were blazing, she still nodded.

"I'm here. What can I... help with?"

"I need to know how to get someone to have sex with me."

 _If I knew that, I'd have shagged you ten ways from Sunday by now,_ she thought bitterly, and immediately blushed even harder at her subconscious complaint.

Nothing in Sherlock's demeanour changed but the slight quirk of an eyebrow, and the sharp focus of his green-grey eyes.

"Perhaps you were the wrong person to..." Sherlock lingered on the words, still watching the smaller woman practically squirm under his presence.

Molly couldn't help but thrill at the thought of getting some intimate knowledge on the notoriously private detective. Airily, she asked, "So, whatever you've tried...um...it's not...working?"

Sherlock cocked his head as if he were studying something under his scope.

"Obviously not, or I wouldn't be asking for advice."

"So...who is she? It might help me, you know...figure out what's wrong," she added hastily, fiddling with her sleeves.

"If I needed advice on a woman I would have asked a man, considering your experience with them sexually is limited to a teenage fumble after a fifth of your father's rum. No, Molly," he said slowly, leaning forward and forcing her eyes to lock on to his. "Sex with a man."

"How could you possibly..." she began to retort, stunned at his deduction, before the weight of what he had actually said hit her. She gave him a curious look, then giggled slightly. "I don't think you should go that far just for a case."

Sherlock resigned himself to a small roll of his eyes at her utter density.

"I want to convince a man to penetrate me, or, should it take another turn - penetrate another man. The circumstances are irrelevant. Advice on the means to do so would be welcome."

She bravely found her voice after only a few blistering seconds of devastated silence. "...I don't understand. Why wouldn't someone...I mean you're so..." Sherlock frowned at her, puzzled. She ended her sentence rather lamely, looking supremely awkward. "...Pretty."

The detective blinked, cocking his head again and Molly flicked her brown eyes upwards, unable to stop herself from comparing him to a confused puppy.

"I don't see how that's relevant."

"Well, I mean you're quite...you're attractive. In that way."

"Duly noted. And this helps me to persuade my partner into penetration how?"

"Maybe he just...doesn't want to? You can't just...bribe someone to have sex with you."

Sherlock's perfectly arched lips pulled into an impressive pout.

"Bribery _hasn't_ worked. Nor has gentle persuasion, aggressive persuasion, begging... I fear I'm running out of options."

Molly was trying to think of something constructive to say in response to that shit-storm of imagery, when the detective interrupted her thoughts.

"You're routinely rejected as a sexual partner, have you any coping strategies beyond the obvious one of seeking righteous vengeance?"

* * *

 

Sherlock skidded his left foot forward as he caught himself, standing up straight with a sigh as the slamming of the door echoed behind him. He felt flustered, the majority of the heat on his face centred on the perfect imprint of a small hand against his cheekbone. For such a small woman, Sherlock was surprised at the amount of force behind such an incredulous blow.

Yet another forcible ejection. Is this what people did when asked for advice? Did agony aunts spend all day physically assaulting people?

Sighing, but not ready to give up, he changed tack, thumbing through his phone for a slightly different kind of favour.

One, unfortunately, that required the co-operation of a certain corpulent brother.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock sat on the kerb, thumbing through his phone as he tuned out the occasional polite tut of passers-by who had to step over his woollen coat, trailing out behind him on the ice-cold pavement.

_-Mycroft. I need to call in a favour. Preferably accompanied by as little childish snark as possible. – SH_

_A favour, dear brother? Why of course. - MH_

_I need information on John. Has he been 'flirting' with anyone? And is there any evidence on his hard drive, beyond what I have been able to access, of any kind of deviant fetishes? - SH_

_You believe John is being unfaithful? - MH_

_Something is keeping him from consummating our - situation. - SH_

_And you believe this to be the result of some unearthed sexual fetish? - MH_

_There's something he's not telling me. If he won't disclose, then I_ must _unearth. I'm not going to lose him over something as trivial as sex. - SH_

_Then perhaps listing possible fetishes would help? - MH_

_I need you to tell me what he's been looking at in private. Regardless of how shocking you imagine I might find it. – SH_

_Well then I needn't tell you that unearthing the truth isn't always the best course of action. -MH_

_Then what is? You know my resolution is absolute when it comes to John. I'm prepared to accede to his desires. - SH_

_Perhaps, but communication I hear is also a fundamental part of a relationship. But I know you, Sherlock, and I'm prepared to do this favour for you. On the condition that you do one for me. –MH_

_If it's sourcing those illegal diet drugs for you again, count me out - SH_

_Nothing quite so boring, I assure you. A simple matter better discussed at another time. For now, I shall start on your favour. -MH_

_Waste no time. This is of vital importance. -SH_

Sherlock stood on cold-stiff legs, and sent one final text to his last potential source of John-related advice. He scrolled down to 'DI Graham' in his contacts and rapidly thumbed his message.

_I need to have a masculine talk with you. - SH_

Unlike Mycroft, however, Lestrade took his time in responding.

_I hope that means what I think it means. Where are you now? - GL_

_51.5174° N, 0.1000° W. - SH_

_Did you really just send me coordinates? - GL_

_You're indescribably dense. No wonder you're single. I'm at Bart's. It's a hospital. In London. Where sick people go. Is that simple enough for you? - SH_

_Bit heavy on the sarcasm. Sherlock. If you need to talk to me urgently then I'm in the local. GL_

Sherlock huffed and shoved his phone back in his pocket, making a grumpy beeline for the pub without looking up. He blinked away a sudden flurry of tiny snowflakes, shaking his curls. He was already beginning to doubt the wisdom in seeking help from the inebriated policeman. Then again, perhaps his loosened tongue would be just what he was after.

* * *

 

John let his tongue run over his upper lip, scavenging the last few beads of foam from the head of his newest pint. There was a small chime that he didn't recognise until he watched Greg clumsily pull his phone out of his pocket.

"Everything alright?" he asked after watched Greg's face crease in concentration as he tapped something out on his sleek device.

"...Y-ep," Greg nodded with over-the-top finality, sending his text and smoothly picking up his pint. "You were saying. About your nurses," he chuckled dirtily.

John snickered, remembering the topic of conversation that had dropped moments before. He tried to pick up the last few strings of his sentence but the words failed him.

"One of them though, seriously, I have to wonder how she got into the medical profession. Like, beautiful but completely... just empty," he shook his head, tapping his temple to accentuate his point.

"The opposite of us, then," Greg chuckled.

"Don't start with that maudlin crap," John said, flicking a hand dismissively in the DI's direction. "We're supposed to be moaning, but not actually getting depressed. You're a good-looking man. I can say that, I'm straight. Ish," John laughed.

"As straight as a u-bend you mean?" teased Lestrade, pulling another long drag from his drink before shaking his head. "To be honest, I don't really think about that. I mean I do, but come on, I'm not twenty anymore. Can't do half the shit I used to."

"You don't think about what? Sex? You're kidding, we've got the best part of an afternoon in front of us,” he said, gesturing at the bar. “I'm sure you could still manage a bit of police brutality in the bedroom."

Greg had been sipping at his drink, but his snort of humour sent a dash of foam into his face and he pulled back, coughing up a laugh.

"Course I think about sex, what kind of man would I be if I didn't?" Greg laughed again, wiping his chin with his palm. "I meant whether I'm attractive or whatever. Back when I was younger, I knew I was good-looking, you know? It all went kinda soft the past couple of years." Greg tapped his belly briefly before picking up his drink again, feeling a little uneasy discussing his personal views - even though the beer was certainly helping him 'open up'.

"If I was a woman, the only thing putting me off would be your shitty pay and hours. No offence," John added, nudging him chummily.

"Alright then, off the record," Greg challenged. "No-one to hear you except the bartender and my own withered ego. Be one of your hot nurses, who have equally shitty pay and hours. Tell me what you find attractive about me."

John raised an eyebrow, finding the whole ordeal more entertaining than it probably should have been. Part of his mind was telling him that this was purely hypothetical and he certainly was _not_ flirting with one of his mates.

"Alright, but I'm not batting my eyes or doing voices." John grinned before studying Greg for a moment, in a way he never thought he would. "So are you wanting the whole personality thing or the actual physical attractiveness points?"

"I've never seen anyone bat their eyes in real life. Sort of thing Sherlock'd probably try, though," Greg mused with a smirk. "You know what, you tell me as much as you can, and I'll buy you something nicer than that cat-piss Foster's," he laughed.

John laughed and shook his head.

"Alcohol for compliments, sounds like a fair trade. OK, so... broad shoulders, always good. Uh..." John cocked his head, trying to see Greg as someone he would flirt with. "Your... eyes."

"Go on," Greg said encouragingly, a boyish grin on his face. "You're doing well. I might even return the favour."

John let out a small giggle, glad he held his pint so that his hands wouldn't be searching for something to do.

"You've got nice eyes," he said finally, feeling a little prickle run down his neck. This was ridiculous, and yet he couldn't shake the sudden rush of guilt as if he were being watched. "And you're funny, you're easy to talk to. You make people feel comfortable, and you have a charming smile."

"Oh John. I'm overcome. Your place or mine?" Greg laughed, slapping John warmly on the arm.

John couldn't stop a smirk, looking in the remnants of his drink. "Yeah, yeah, just don't let your ego get too big."

"Never heard it called that before," Greg guffawed tipsily. "And don't let anyone tell you there's such a thing as 'too big." He collapsed into further cackles.

John couldn't stop himself from joining in, a mixture of scoffing snorts and high giggles as he tried to keep himself steady on his stool.

"Well for that, I'm not talking about that."

"Now would be a really inappropriate time to continue talking about dicks. I've kind of got Sherlock's...hypothetical one floating around in my head. I can't look away, it's like a car crash," Greg muttered, eyes hazy as he grimaced dramatically, then huffed in amusement.

"Hypothetical...are you serious?" he snorted, bringing his drink to his lips only to realise it was empty. He chuckled again and put the empty glass on the bar.

"Yeah, well, not all of us routinely get woken up by it," the DI grinned, calling for some Guinness. "I'm assuming he has one," he shrugged. "Never know, the man's kind of an alien. Do aliens have pricks?"

"Is that something you think about a lot then Greg?" teased John, nodding as the bartender asked if John wanted another one. "Course he has one, and he's not an alien." John kept his tone light, but the undertone was almost defensive.

"You know what I mean. I'm just saying, I wouldn't fancy my chances with him. Like _that_. Christ, what am I saying. Forget that. I don't want to think about your boyfriend's dick ever again. That's your job," he nodded sagely. "Which brings us back to your little problem, I guess."

John sighed and propped his elbow on the bar before resting his chin on his palm.

"Yeah, I guess. Although you do seem quite into my boyfriend's dick. Nothing you wanted to admit to me, was there?" John gave Greg a wicked grin before letting out a little burst of laughter.

"Like I said...there's a limit to how much Sherlock I can handle. You, on the other hand, different matter. I know how you tick," Greg jested, looking smug.

John raised an eyebrow. "Oh really? You think so?"

"Yup. Because you're like me. You're a good guy, most of the time. When you're not, you don't mind breaking a few rules. You're not ruled by your dick but you sure as hell know what to do with it."

"I can't work out if that was a compliment or bragging," he chuckled, taking another pull of his drink. Things were starting to feel hazy, the sounds of the pub starting to dim. He cast a glance around to see that the patrons from before were gone, replaced by other, more withered looking people.

Greg noticed his gaze, and mirrored it, a bit hazily. "Yeah, looking a bit dire, isn't it. Have you got to get back yet? If not, I was fixing a curry tonight. Spicy as fuck if you like that sort of thing."

John had been studying something blurry on the wall, before catching Greg's voice and turning to listen. His body had been turned at an angle that allowed him to be completely unaware of the figure that slid from a nearby booth, a rustle of black material in his wake.

"John isn't partial to spicy foods."

Both the doctor and the DI jolted with shock, nearly knocking their drinks across the sticky bar.

"Holy fuck, where did you come from," Greg exclaimed, smearing a splash of warm Guinness from his cuff.

"Jesus," muttered John, taking a deep breath as he put his drink on the bar. He turned on his stool, blinking dumbly as he took in the image of Sherlock standing there, arms behind his back, face slightly scrunched up as he observed Greg with those sharp eyes.

"You told me to meet you here, and here I am," said the consulting detective absently, flickering his eyes briefly to John before setting them back onto the DI with a new kind of intensity.

"Yeah, thought you'd thrown a strop and changed your mind," Greg replied. "Sit down, join the 'masculine talk,' we've already started," he grinned.

John felt a small rush of heat run up his cheeks, and he shifted uneasily even if he couldn't quite pin down on why. Sherlock hadn't moved, however, but John couldn't quite bring himself to meet those eyes either.

"What's yours, Sherlock? 'Screaming Orgasm,' if I remember rightly? When did you first get a taste for _them_ ," the DI chuckled, signalling the bartender again.

"Around the same time you got a taste for stealing phallic vegetables from your mum's crisper to 'experiment' with."

John gave out a splutter just as Greg choked on his own tongue, and the atmosphere around them was suddenly so thick with awkwardness that John could hardly take a breath.

"Sherlock," the doctor said with a frown, turning to look at the man who was still staring intently at the DI. Like he was avoiding John's gaze.

"John. This isn't what I intended. I was looking for advice but I suspect I've learnt everything I need from eavesdropping on the pair of you."

"You were eavesdropping?" asked the doctor dumbly, a hint of confusion marred by the awkward tension still clinging on the air. "What are you talking about?"

Sherlock thrust a pointed finger at an eccentric-looking, scholarly man sipping foamy beer and reading a thick novel some distance away. "I stole his hat and slipped into that booth once I heard your...conversation." He fiddled with the flat cap distractedly, glaring at Greg.

"And you're upset because...?" John was stalling, and he knew it. He wasn't sure what Sherlock had heard, or what he thought he'd heard, so he would reserve judgement until the man gave him a little more information.

"'Your place or mine?' Granted, you didn't take him up on it. But it's entirely unwarranted for Graham to try and bed you just because we're having...marital problems," Sherlock muttered.

John let his eyes turn to Greg, who rather than seeming shocked, looked like he was about to piss himself laughing. John clamped down, squeezing his teeth together before turning back to look at his boyfriend.

"First, we're not having marital problems Sherlock. We're not married, and alright, things might be a little rocky but it's not that bad. And second - we weren't being serious. Do you honestly think there's something going on between us? Me and Greg? Putting your personal feelings aside, use your logic."

Greg had started hacking out a few giggles behind them and John had to stop himself from kicking the man off his stool. His focus was Sherlock, even if the man still wouldn't look at him.

Sherlock frowned at the dig at his lapse in logic, but a sharp vibration in his pocket reminded him that all was not lost. Mycroft may yet come through with a solution. At the bottom of the Pandora's Box of brotherhood, was perhaps one tiny, fat blob of hope.

"I think...there's a reason you aren't looking to me for sex," he said carefully.

John felt his shoulders tense, acutely aware that Greg was listening and John did not want to have this kind of talk with an audience. Sherlock was making it painfully obvious that John was holding out, and the longer he did so, the more intense Sherlock would get. It was a never-ending circle that continuously gave John a headache.

"And that's Greg, is it?" said John, his voice laced with sarcasm. He looked over to the DI. "No offense, mate."

Greg raised his hands in supplication, shrugging amicably.

"Well, it's _somebody_ ," Sherlock snapped irritably. "You're getting your rocks off somewhere and I know it's not in the vicinity of _me_."

"I am not -" John sent the DI a glare as he heard a snicker. "I am _not_ sleeping with someone else, Sherlock. Christ sake, I thought you'd have a bit more trust in me than that."

"Then how on earth are you managing!?" Sherlock exclaimed, looking flustered. "You're not showing any of the signs you usually do when you're forced into abstinence. No grouching, no reckless flirting, no webcams!"

"Webcams?"

"Greg, just shut up." John could feel all eyes on them now, Sherlock's scene quickly becoming the most animate and interesting thing in the pub. "It's not all about sex," said John, his voice low and steady. The drinks in his system were making his responses too quick, and he was getting aggravated far sooner than he would have normally.

"...Why are you here? Bemoaning your relationship with me to the help?" Sherlock only called the Met 'the help' when he was feeling particularly nasty.

"I came out for a drink with a friend. Why are _you_ here?" John couldn't stop his emotions from mirroring Sherlock's sarcastic bitterness, mostly because he felt Sherlock's attitude was uncalled for and he was getting a little fed up of the petulant child act.

"I- I needed...something. It's private. And embarrassing,” Sherlock mumbled, feeling his face flame.

John opened his mouth to speak, whatever stupid reason for his behaviour, Sherlock looked so befuddled that John felt it as an ache in his chest. He wanted to help, to do something, but John wasn't who the man needed.

"I'm just heading off anyway," he mumbled, getting to his feet.

"I don't think - it's going to help now," the detective said plaintively, before casting a cool glare at Greg.

John sighed and shrugged into his coat. "Well I'm still going, I don't particularly want to stay here and be accused of cheating again."

Sherlock was about to demand that John stay and comfort him, but he startled and stared when Greg's hand landed on his arm, and the DI began to mollify him instead. "Sit down Sherlock, let's chat."

John nodded goodbye to Greg just as the man started to urge Sherlock into a stool. The doctor looked over at his partner before stepping forward, towards the door. It was almost a physical force that stopped him, turned him around, and brought his face into the crook of the detective's neck.

He didn't kiss, didn't touch the man apart from his cheek to Sherlock's. It was the briefest of contact before John was moving out of the pub, but the doctor couldn't just leave. Despite it all, Sherlock was still his whatever-they-were, and he didn't want the man thinking it was over.

 

 

 


End file.
